Love's Loathing
by The Fictionist
Summary: Lord Voldemort is head of Magical Britain. Harry Potter is a rebel leader in charge of the last scraps of resistance against his regime. Things would be difficult enough even if they hadn't once been best friends.
1. Chapter 1

By all rights, Lord Voldemort should have been entirely satisfied with his life.

He had everything he'd once dreamed of; he was the head of a blooming empire, the Wizarding World of Great Britain prostrating itself at his feet. He was powerful, respected, admired and feared.

He only had the last vestiges of resistance to crush, and then no one would ever threaten his rule again. He'd have nothing to fear, no challenge or death to usurp his claim upon the world.

It should taste sweet on his tongue, rolling across his palette like the juiciest of summer fruits. He should have felt that old thrill as his people surrendered before him, and a bloody war slipped into something nearing a frigid peace.

He'd done it. Everything he'd once dreamed of, and the pathetic spectre of Tom Riddle had been wiped away, taking all memories of his father and all weak things with him.

But it still nagged at him. The resistance, and in particular the green eyed man who led it. The last link.

He supposed it was fitting, in a way, that the boy who had once made him happy should be the man to itch at his skin and contentment, churning loathing in his gut.

Harry Potter was a problem he should have dealt with a long time ago.  
He should have slit the other's throat the second he realized how dangerous he was, before he had the chance to grow, when they were still just school boys sitting laughing on the edge of the Black Lake.

He'd been weak. Sentimental, he supposed, if he could ever call himself such a thing. He'd assumed Harry would have stood by him, by his vision and grand plans for his utopia, after everything that they'd been through.

He was wrong.

He let his eyes close, taking a sip of his wine as he shifted through his reports.

The resistance were slowly evacuating muggleborns away from the country, to France, and that was just so _typical _of him wasn't it? His jaw clenched. He tried not to think about it.

Most of the enemy forces had given up by now, assimilated and crushed into their new places - taking what they could of this new world, because resistance was futile and would lead only to death or being at the bottom of the new order.

He suspected Harry wouldn't give up. He'd die before surrendering and there was really no reason for that thought to make him so livid. If Potter hadn't managed to grow a brain since he was sixteen, then it was hardly his fault. Harry was just another pathetic specimen who didn't understand the true glory of his vision, and its limitless scope.

This was just the beginning.

But he couldn't move on until the other was dealt with. By his own hand. The man had it coming, he didn't deserve to quietly die in battle.

These thoughts weren't helping. He had far more important things to think about and consider, then some rebel leader who thought he had a chance of turning the fate of the world around.

It was the last piece, then he would have everything he'd ever wanted, and nobody would have the power to make victory taste so sour again.

His eyes snapped open as one of his alarms started buzzing.

* * *

It is considered normal for friends to drift apart as they grew older, but even under such sage words Harry would never have anticipated this.

He hurtled down the rain-trodden street, the Aurors - if they could even claim the name nowadays - chasing after him. His heart hammered in his chest. He could see his face emblazoned on Wanted Posters on the walls at every side, some peeling at the corners but still not hiding the obscenely rich bounty available for his capture, or even information on his whereabouts.

Maybe he should feel honoured, but the sight of them, and the acknowledgement of the man-monster behind them just left the most terrible ache in his chest. And it wasn't from the numerous wounds and bruises covering his body either.

He hoped the other members of the resistance got out okay; the Aurors would be focused on him most of all, so maybe they had a chance. Maybe they'd be okay.

There weren't many of them yet, and whilst he should feel happy that the bloody war was almost over, the stiff cruelty of the oncoming peace hardly seemed better.

They were losing, maybe they'd lost already. But Harry refused to go down without fighting to the bitter end. Not after everything. He just wished all the old memories would stop playing in his head.

Harry sprinted around another corner, trying to break away from the Anti-apparation that had sprung up the second their location was betrayed, firing a blasting spell behind him to try and keep them back. He had an emergency portkey, but he would have preferred not to use it until it was absolutely necessary, because it was getting harder and harder nowadays and such things were precious.

He skidded his way around another corner, already guessing that the main entrances to Diagon Alley would be blocked off by now.

Then he swore, eyes narrowing, wand clutched even more tightly in his hands.

His mouth dried out completely.

"Shouldn't you be running the country or something?" the words blurted out before he could help himself, and his chin jutted up in defiance.

Lord Voldemort - because he couldn't call the man 'Tom', not anymore, it just twisted his insides and left a bad taste in his mouth - stared with a pseudo-impassiveness back at him.

However blank that unhealthily pale face was, those unnatural, scarlet eyes were _burning. _

"Two years, and that's the greeting you give to an old friend?" The Dark Lord returned, softly. "I heard you were in the area. Thought I'd come see if it was true or not, seeing as you escaping my team is the only time I'd have the opportunity to run into you again."

Harry's throat felt thick, but he squared his shoulders, jaw tight.

"I suppose I should feel flattered," he replied, carefully, already starting to try and edge his way around. He was skeptical if it would work or not, but he had to _try. _"But then you've already killed all your old friends and anyone who used to know you, so I suppose it's more ominous than anything else."

"I should kill you," the tyrant replied, in a dangerously conversational voice. "You've been causing a lot of trouble for me with your insistent little resistance. Last I heard you were in Birmingham blowing up my factories."

"Last I heard you were considering war on France," Harry spat back, "as if forcing Britain into your twisted playground wasn't bad enough. When is it going to be enough for you?"

The Muggles were all but gone, and Britain was now a First Class Magical Zone.  
Purebloods - Halfbloods - Muggleborns at the bottom of the heap. It sickened him.

Tom had...Tom had never liked his heritage, Harry knew that, and had made his early distaste for muggles and his convictions of superiority more than clear, but Harry still hadn't thought…

Maybe he'd convinced himself that, with everything between them, he could convince his former lover of another way, another path. One of less hatred.

He'd failed.

Looking at Lord Voldemort was like looking at a stranger, the half imprint of somebody he used to know but who had changed beyond repair to become almost unrecognizable.

Tom Riddle was an old photograph.

Whilst Lord Voldemort may have some similarities in appearance still - and everything would be so much easier if he didn't, and the same velvet undertone to his voice - a lot had changed.

Skin that had once been a healthy cream was now like bone, slender figure becoming skeletal and god - the eyes were the worst. It wasn't even just the colour, saturated with the blood of a thousand murders and dark arts rituals, but the ice in them.

Tom had never been the affectionate kind, at least not stereotypically, even when they were together - but now. Now he seemed hollowed out and sharper around the edges, and he'd never been nice either.

It made bile claw its way up Harry's throat to see the man he'd loved - who maybe he still loved in some way that he would never admit to - become this. Monster.

There was no mercy in that gaze as the Dark Lord took a step closer to him.

"When I have _everything_," the other replied, simply, with a certain unwavering intentness in his expression that made Harry feel like he was pinned under a microscope. It definitely left no doubt or certain things, but it changed nothing, couldn't make it better even if his head spun to see the other again after so long.

At least in person.

Lord Voldemort had headlined the papers often enough, and even more so now when as the ruler of Wizarding Britain.

There was something else there too, just for a flicker of a second, before Harry figured he must have been mistaken.

He clutched his wand tighter, got ready to fight.

"When is it going to be enough for you, Harry?" the man questioned, eyes still fixed on him. "When everyone in your resistance is dead? It's over. I won. The sooner you surrender to that, the better off you'll be."

"Now, we both know I'll never surrender to you," Harry returned, forcing his lips into a smirk.

The other's eyes flashed.

"You could come home."

And all of a sudden he couldn't breathe.

He'd been underground for a very long time, fighting in the shadows, in battles, trying to avoid meeting this man in the fear that he would twist him up all over again. Twist him up and spit him out, because his best friend was _gone. _

That became clear that day. Wired into his brain. The argument.

He sucked in a sharp exhale, shook his head, as the other stepped closer to him again, hands held up in an almost placating gesture.

Voldemort's expression had slipped into something soft and reasonable, but those eyes hadn't changed.

"Your friends could have some level of immunity too. What few you have left. They don't have to die, Harry. We can still go back to the way we used to be…"

Harry's eyes were wide, and despite his prowess in battle and reputation for being near unbeatable, he felt like nothing so much as a deer in headlights at that precise moment.

He hated it. Caught a stirring of movement, and slammed his hand down on his portkey to see the other's eyes widen too, with rage.

Back to work it was.

* * *

_A/N: I'm not entirely sure what this is. I guess I'm testing out the idea of a 'Voldemort won' ficlet. I've wanted to do one of those for a while, and BH part 1 is almost done, so...I figured why not. I don't work well with plot bunnies in my head._

_The idea behind this one is that Harry and Tom used to be friends/lovers and really close, but it didn't stop Tom becoming Voldemort, and now Harry is the head of the last bit of resistance against him. Um, yeah. I shall hide now...feedback would be much loved! :D_


	2. Chapter 2

_The first time Tom Riddle met Harry Potter, he wanted. _

_He wanted the easy camaraderie that the green eyed eleven year old already seemed to have with the other first years in his compartment._

_He wanted the surname 'Potter', and the pureblood power that came with being even a much-loved bastard in such a line, rather than being Riddle and thus, nobody at all._

_He wanted to claw at that the smile which suggested everything was fine even as the flicker in the other's eyes suggested that everything really wasn't._

_He wanted to be the type of boy who was friends with Harry Potter._

_He wasn't any of those things._

* * *

_The first time Harry Potter met Tom Riddle, he had a vague sense of unease in his chest and the feeling that he'd seen him somewhere before. _

_ He had nightmares of scarlet eyes, just as quickly dismissed for inviting the boy into his compartment because he didn't think anyone should have to make such important first journeys alone._

_ He had a sense of pity at how cold the boy was, how stiff his shoulders were in his second-hand uniform, and how he couldn't seem to relax into simply being friends with people._

_Maybe he had too many expectations shoved onto his shoulders, since he'd been discovered as a Potter a few months ago, wandering Diagon Alley with no memory of how he'd got there, and Tom Riddle seemed like freedom._

_Maybe he just wanted a friend._

* * *

Harry scrubbed his eyes, jolting awake on the chair he was sitting on, face white.  
He didn't know when he'd fallen asleep, but a quick tempus charm told him it was around five in the morning.

And his shoulder and neck felt stiff for falling asleep in such a bad position, his mind murky and clouded with old memories he hadn't been able to shake.

"You alright?" tendered a quiet voice behind him. Harry didn't jump out of his skin, finding Hermione behind him. She'd been in their year at school. He'd always got on well with her, though they'd never spent much time together.

Sometimes she'd just give him the oddest, saddest looks and he hated it.

He swallowed, forced a smile.  
The headaches kept coming, in and out, before fading again.

"Always," he said, briskly, standing up. "Reports?"

She continued to stare at him for a moment longer, fists clenched at her sides, a smudge of dust on her cheek. He raised his brows, pointedly. "_Hermione." _

She cleared her throat, seeming to dismiss it. He knew she meant well looking out for him, he just sometimes wished she wouldn't.

"Voldemort has started rebuilding the factories we've destroyed, and he's had to channel money in rebuilding Diagon Alley after the mess the Aurors made chasing us." Her voice dropped a little then, subdued, and he grimaced.

They'd lost some good people there – friends, talented witches and wizards. Their numbers were pretty much down to nothing.

He tried not to sigh heavily, wondering if they even had a chance. He wondered if he should have taken Tom-_Voldemort _up on his offer of immunity for the rest of the resistance. It had probably just been a lie. The man had only been stalling so his Aurors could toss him into Azkaban or something.

But he still couldn't even think about it without something catching horrendously in his throat. And what recruits he did have certainly weren't happy with him.

Of course, there'd always been rumours. It was hardly a secret among the resistance that he used to bloody well date the enemy, but for a long time it had been squashed down as an uncomfortable thing that should never come up.

But everything seemed to become an issue when they were losing, especially when he'd come face to face with their notorious lord and master, and lived to tell the tale. Apparently that was rare enough that anyone who hadn't been close to them, back then (and most of the people in that category were dead or in Tom's inner circle) thought that was surprising enough despite his own reputation for them to at least consider foul play.

For years, he'd taken an alias simply because he couldn't stand the questions and the assumptions.

He'd once, in a weak moment with firewhiskey, joked to Hermione that it was like a stereotypical bad divorce but worse. Tom had taken his friends, his money in funding this bloody opposition, his hope in humanity and the country too just to rub salt in.

She hadn't been all that amused, but it was enough to stop Harry feeling like he was choking under the pressure.

He just didn't know how long they could keep this up.  
At least not in the sense of civil war and rebellion. They were too outnumbered. He was currently working on trying to get some support from the other countries, France perhaps, because Voldemort was going to end up turning on them too and it was so familiar to the bombs he half remembered.

A house on fire, his mother's voice pleading…it all buzzed to dust in the back of his mind. Unattainable memories he'd never quite got back.

And for crying out loud, Tom-_Voldemort_ had even taken his life ambitions, because the bastard had finally ended up dragging him into national and world politics too.

The git always had been a leech. Such insults seemed even sourer now than they did back then.

There was a truce dinner coming up. It seemed absurd to him to go to a fine dinner in Paris, merging with an international magical conference, but he needed help. He needed to dress up nice and make a good impression and fantastic arguments on why the world should step in and take Voldemort down and interfere, whilst his friends were dying around him and he lived in in a warded camp and set of tents in the middle of the forest.

It just seemed ridiculous. But he couldn't do this alone. Not anymore.

Some of the resistance had tentatively suggested that they just leave – flee England and start up a new life somewhere else, the battle lost.

Harry knew better.

If they stopped now, it was just a matter of waiting and hoping Voldemort didn't occupy whichever country they chose, whilst they still lived.

If he'd had any doubts that Voldemort would settle for Britain, they were gone.

He could feel a headache building, gave Hermione a reassuring smile.

"It will work out okay," he promised. "In the end."

Maybe he was an idealistic idiot despite it all and sort of hoped he'd still get through to Tom.

* * *

_When he was sorted into Slytherin, Harry had to admit that he was a little nervous and could feel something nagging at his mind. Maybe the Sorting Hat's chuckles ringing in his head and the relishing smirk when it asked 'are you sure? Not going to argue are you?'_

_It seemed a bit weird; even for a talking hat._

_Still, there was nothing wrong with ambition and Lady Dorea Black-nee Potter had been a Slytherin, so it wasn't like he was going to get booted out of the Potter family for it._

_He'd been lucky they'd accepted him in the first place, but apparently he was a Potter because Goblin-run blood tests didn't lie, and he shared a remarkable family resemblance certain details aside._

_He'd sat down, been a bit disappointed when Charlus had swaggered his way over to the Gryffindor table because now he didn't know anyone, and whilst he may have been a Potter, apparently the Slytherins could be a bit picky on their blood purity._

_Certainly, Walburga Black was giving him a disdainful look down the table, and looked about a split second from hissing 'filthy little bastard' in his direction._

_He probably clapped the loudest when Tom became a Slytherin too._

_It was nice to have a familiar face._

* * *

_ There'd never been any doubt as to which house he would end up, in of course. He could talk to snakes, and so the House of the Serpent simply had to be fitting for him._

_He could see them in their expensive robes, and he kept a cold, blank face as he made his way over, taking a seat next to Harry. He didn't let himself smile at the other, or at any of them. _

_ There was a muted, somewhat awkward clapping. He didn't understand it. Was it because he was poor? He refused to be unnerved, tipping his chin up in defiance._

_They made pleasant enough small talk to him. And he thought, for a second, that he'd imagined any sort of hostility._

_Then, in the common room, he'd heard the word 'mudblood' hissed at him._

_He didn't know what a mudblood was, but he certainly vowed to prove himself better than that. He would gain power, and then he'd show them – because he'd seen that look of circling him before, like he was a startled deer stuck in a snare around wolves. _

_ He squared his shoulders. No. He wouldn't allow himself to be picked on this time. He'd put a stop to it in the Orphanage, he wasn't going to tolerate it here. He opened his mouth to say something withering, but the second after that Potter had smashed his fist right into the pointed face of Abraxas Malfoy._

_There was a ringing silence, and the boy gave a winning grin over his cracked knuckles._

_"I don't like that word."_

_ It was unfortunate that their Head of House walked in at the same moment._

* * *

Tom couldn't describe his home as anything other than elegantly indulgent.

His sheets were the finest Egyptian cotton, and he had art in the walls straight from the National Gallery.

It was everything he'd always deserved and never had.

If there was spare guest bedroom, never mentioned by the House Elves who kept it spotless, or anyone else, with fresh sheets and an emerald green duvet, books on the shelves and an old Cleansweep in the closet…it didn't bear thinking about it.

He'd just got out of a PR meeting with Abraxas regarding their presentations in the upcoming Truce Dinner.

He didn't know if Potter would show up, but considering the other nations had made it clear it was an open invite, and it was under a truce, he suspected the other would just to stab at him further and make things difficult.

Maybe the man's hatred of politics would keep him at bay, but he doubted it. Harry always had been infuriatingly stubborn and defiant, from the first moment he met him.

It would be…interesting, either way, or he refused to give any due consideration to the man further. The traitor had been haunting his thoughts for too long already, especially because of the previous week's incident.

He'd been so _close _to having him…and he wasn't examining himself too closely on that regard either. Harry Potter was a threat, one that needed to be neutralized by whatever means necessary.

He told himself he was merely acknowledging that if Harry worked with him, instead of against him, his utopia would be set up far more quickly. Not that he didn't have the time to spare, but nonetheless.

God, he hated Potter so much.  
He felt he could be consumed by his hatred, if he allowed himself to feel it, burning beneath his skin.

No, he had more important things to talk about, like the meeting with the quarterly meeting with the Werewolves he now had to attend to, and pretending he gave a damn about the children his 'friends' were suddenly so disgustingly insistent over creating.

…Maybe he'd get Harry a cactus for next time he saw the man.  
He could stab it in his pretty eyes, and maybe that would stop old memories cluttering his sleep.

Either way, he had a lot to do before the dinner next week.

Being world leader was supposed to be more fun than this.

* * *

**A/N: So, a lot of people pointed out this is quite a similar premise to the Dumbledore/Grindelwald story...and yeah, you're right. I cannot deny that. But in my defense I do have a whole backstory thing planned, and it's such an interesting premise to play around with...*sheepish hopeful smile.***

**Anyway, hope you guys are enjoying the stories, as always reviews are inspiration, generally loved and a great pick me up for reality, oh and for your note - big block of italics equals story bit is in the past, whilst normal is present and what's happening now. :)**

**PS: This chapter is (belatedly, sorry) dedicated to "Upon-a-Rainbow"" for her birthday ;) And I'd give you dedication for being a twin, but you lied to m :P Anyway, if you're reading this...um yeah. Have a chapter. Happy Birthday! Hope it was awesome.**


	3. Chapter 3

Sometimes, Harry couldn't help but irrationally think that maybe if their first time had been different, with more candles and god-forsaken rose petals, then maybe things wouldn't have gone as wrong as they had.

Maybe he would have been enough for Tom, enough to prove that he didn't have to strip his identity and become someone completely different just to be worth something. Maybe, if Harry had known what was coming, he would have cherished the moments, taken more care with his words and actions and not reeled furious when the truth of his former lover's plans came out. Maybe he would have been better at showing that being Tom Riddle meant something and was worth it. Maybe it was his fault that Tom had turned into Voldemort, and maybe it was something that had always lurked in the man, but he felt guilty either way.

Homosexuality hadn't exactly been...encouraged at Hogwarts, and so that night he'd ended up going to Slughorn's Christmas Party with Charlotte Barton in a contrived but well meaning night of awkwardly brushing hands and blushes seared scarlet in the soft lighting.

It hadn't actually been that bad or anything. He'd known she had a small crush on him, but they were good enough friends and the conversation was decent. He'd had a pleasant time, outside of the expected moments of discomfort that came hand in hand with such things, and the ever so polite kiss left on her cheek at the end of the night.

Tom had been seething all evening, and Harry sort of knew he would, but hadn't expected anything to come of it because even if the boy had always had a possessive streak, he must know that reputation was everything and mattered even more in their house then others, when bloodlines and heirs were so paramount.

He'd dropped her off back at the Hufflepuff common room, and returned to Slytherin. He couldn't remember, now, what he'd been thinking about but he'd barely entered the dungeons when Tom was on him, slamming him back hard into one of the abandoned potions classrooms. Lips had crashed down on his own a second later.

He'd ended up splayed and pinned against one of the desks, his shirt trapping his hands above his head as Tom sucked and nibbled at his throat, teasing every inch of him half to insanity, a near manic gleam in his eyes, very obviously relishing every moan and gasp he could wring out; hands gripped tight on his hips, nails raking burning claims against his skin.

There's been nothing romantic, sweet or tender about it. Just a clumsy, raw sort of want, quickly over, leaving them both in the ringing silence and harsh, panting breaths, boneless with lingering pleasure.

Tom had spent a lot of time refining his methods in the year after that, as they learned the best way to exquisitely torture each other with deceptively tender lips, grazing fingers and heat trapped flush between them, practising smiles that taunted and reassured at the same time.

It wasn't entirely without affection, of course it wasn't, but most people wouldn't believe it to see the charming but aloof facade Riddle affected, and the way they only softened when no one else was around to easily witness it, and thoughts of ruin and undoing shifted to lazy sunlight on pillows and fingers tracing over and healing marks made in war.

He supposed Tom had even warned him one night, of what could and would come, breath hot against his throat, hips grinding against his own until he couldn't even think straight, every line of tension in his body radiating need. He'd smirked up at the boy, a gleam in his eyes, asking him teasingly what he wanted, fingers raking through the other's hair, down his back to a bruising grip at his waist.

You. Tom had said. I want you. I want everything you can give me, and then everything else too after that until there's no part that I can't call mine.

Sometimes, during the dark nights in hiding, as his body ached from bloody battles of a very different kind, and he knew people comforted each other and some had even offered such things to him with soft lips he didn't know how to communicate with anymore, he wondered if that was still true.

Yeah, Harry didn't see how he hadn't seen that they were destined to end up on opposing sides of the battlefield all along. He supposed happiness had a nasty habit of blindsiding people.

He didn't feel blindsided now, sitting in a stiff suit at a truce dinner, with Voldemort wearing an oh so familiar smirk on his face as he made easy small talk to various ambassadors.

He could admit Tom had always been more interested in politics now, and maybe it was normal for a Slytherin to build up networks early, but Harry had never quite expected it to lead into this despite Tom's old habit to go into a rant about all the things he would change in the world.

Harry had listened, dutifully, argued his own points, but in the self-indulgence of youth had enjoyed watching the enthusiastic gleam in Tom's eyes and the flowing gestures of his talented hands more than any real consideration of the other's future plans when everyone was making them and he'd assumed he'd be putting up with a politician not a tyrant.

The bastard was straight across the table from him, and even as Voldemort discussed a point on the upcoming international duelling tournament the other caressed the tip of his obscenely expensive dragonhide boots along Harry's calf.

It drove him absolutely mad. Especially when he knew the git was deliberately angling to frustrate him and make him childishly lash out, like he would have done at Hogwarts, interrupting the proceedings with a sweet smile and a barbed comment.

But he'd long since discovered the quickest way to piss Tom Riddle off, if not Voldemort, was to ignore him and frankly as much as he would love to lunge across the vol-au-vents and the small plates of caviar and various other things to wring the man's neck, he also knew that would do nothing to help him right now. He had to be the professional politician, cold and composed, not everything else.

He was rewarded with the way Voldemort's eyes flickered to him - not that he was paying attention - as he engaged Marja Lundgren, the Swedish ambassador, in a light conversation about the upcoming Fossegrimen Festival in November.

He tried not to just lunge at the food, eating politely around replies, despite being absolutely ravenous. He hardly had Hogwarts banquets when he was a fugitive, after all, though they made do. They weren't...starving exactly, but it was hardly plentiful either. This was more food than he'd seen in quite some time.

If he was in a position to do so, he would have brought it home to share with his fellow rebels, but that would do nothing to help him from a political standpoint.

He still paused as Dufort, their French host, leaned over to place another platter of soft looking rolls in front of him with a smile, to replace an empty one. Harry blinked.

"Please," the man waved a hand. "Eat up. It seems England starves its citizens."  
Obviously, Harry had suspected the Frenchman would be on his side, considering France would be the first on Voldemort's hit list should he aspire to extend his empire, and Harry resisted the urge to grin.

"Thank you, sir," he said, playing up a little to his youth he would admit, whilst maintaining the image of knowing exactly what he was doing. The people here already knew he wasn't without power. He'd been invited in the first place, after all.

And if they did think he was just some stupid child, despite Tom being the same age as him, then it would mean they'd slip up around him, because he was pretty sure everyone had their own ulterior motives on a global scale and weren't just here for the sake of resolving the scraps of another English Civil War, whatever it's impact on a worldwide scale.

If they helped him, they would damn well be wanting something in return.

Voldemort didn't quite shoot him a foul look, but there was ice in the other's eyes. He was glad they had the table between them.

"Oh, I feed my citizens," the tyrant replied lightly, with a pleasant smile. "Poverty in the UK has reached an all time low under my regime with resources shared more equally around a lesser population. Mr Potter is merely not currently a citizen, he has not registered under the new acts and spends most of his time plotting acts of terrorism. If he broke the law less, I'm sure he'd come home to dinner just fine."

Harry ignored the twist in his stomach, and the flash of something else in the other's eyes for barely a second - wished he could ignore the call back to Voldemort's suggestion that he just come home before too.

This was exactly the same. If he stopped fighting, he had no doubt he could lead a very comfortable life under Voldemort's heavy hand, watched and doted on and smothered in some parody of what they used to have where his own autonomy and agency was limited in the parameters of what Voldemort wanted too.

There would be no freedom to it. It would be punishing in that suffocating way which he couldn't lash out against because as a 'traitor' it was 'far better than he deserved' and he should instil a sense of gratitude instead. 

"Maybe you should come up with better laws that don't discriminate based on something as archaic and ridiculous as blood purity then," Harry replied, sweetly, his own eyes hardening too. "Bit strange, really, considering you're a halfblood yourself."

There was a stiff silence, that bordered on the want to nervous laughter to break it on the behalf of some people.

After a moment, Lundgren leaned forwards to try and ease the tension, and Voldemort's expression carefully softened away from the terrifying ferocity in his eyes and curving the edges of his magic.

Maybe that made the difference here, in the way the others were reacting - whilst none of them were weak wizards and witches, many were here due to intelligence rather than raw magical power, and then some were here as representative of those more powerful than themselves. A mix.

But Tom had always been powerful. More so than even normal standards.

Harry was nonetheless relieved when the next course was served, and, eventually, he could escape to his room.

He didn't think he'd ever enjoy politics.

* * *

Of course, he'd expected Harry to be here, he just hadn't expected the man to be any sort of threat to him on a political scale.

The Harry Potter he knew had always loathed politics and despite his status as a bastard Potter son, had always shied away from such things. He'd always refused to engage in even Slytherin politics, and he supposed it had been a mark of how...special Harry was that he had gotten away with it. Friends with all the houses alike, and not penalized for the lack of effort he put in.

He was more genuine than that. Of course, that wasn't to say Harry was incapable of manipulation, he certainly wasn't, and Harry knew the systems as well as he himself did...but this was different. Harry was an expert with Slytherin politics when he actually bothered, but he'd never cared to engage in them and build up in the same way. He'd never bothered with world politics, and...he'd somehow assumed he would be the same now. Knowing theory, but getting easily worked up and passionate and real over the cold masks dictated.

But he barely recognized the boy's previous politics now. Harry was much more...honed and sharp around the edges where he used to be, the goofing off and playfulness stripped away for something incredibly dangerous.

It should have made him furious. It did - the man seemed to insist on ruining everything Tom worked for - but what infuriated him even more was that he liked it.

Not the ruining everything he worked for, but there was something incredibly...arousing to see Harry coming into his own and in control, playing in Tom's fields. It was the same surge of heat he got on those occasions when Harry used to wear his shirt.

Want and violence had always been the best-worst combination when he came to the two of them.

He'd barged into the room Harry was staying in with ridiculous ease, smirking when he could hear the shower going.

And then sometimes the other was pleasantly routine.

It had always been something more than politics between them.

* * *

Harry knew the real politics would start tomorrow, at least in the official sense of meetings, rather than todays quiet circling and picking and studying for any vulnerabilities exposed for exploitation.

That was what he didn't like about politics. The cruel sliminess of it all. It was supposed to be about the good of the country, and if it was only that Harry may have been on board a long time ago, never one for idly sitting aside when he could do something about a situation.

Not when it really counted, at least.

Maybe he'd spent too much time around Tom Riddle as a teenager, but the bastard had effectively stomped out all possibility of apathy in everyone around him, and sucked it into his own black hole of uncaring.

Still, the hot spray of the amazing shower - and he mentioned that he missed reliable hot water not heated by his own magic? - was like heaven against his muscles, and did a great job relaxing him.

The wine served with dinner left a pleasant feeling too, though he wasn't intoxicated. He wasn't so stupid as to drop his guard like that. He wrapped one of the soft white towels around his waist, emerging from the steaming bathroom only to swear very loudly and nearly jump out of his skin. His wand was immediately in the palm of his hand.

Voldemort merely took another lazy drag of his cigarette - and Harry found it rather ironic that the champion of blood purity was addicted to such a muggle product.

"I know it's been a while," Tom-Voldemort drawled, "but I'm pretty sure my presence on your bed is not so unusual an occurrence to warrant such a dramatic reaction." The other's gaze raked across his torso, head tilting, a vague, remote sort of appreciation flaring in those unnatural eyes for a second.

Harry huffed and crossed his arms defensively.

"Get out."

All he got for that was another smirk, as the bastard exhaled smoke in his general direction. Though Harry did notice the git had at least had the courtesy to crack the window open.

"You're room is better than mine. I think Monsieur Dufort likes you. And not in the way you want anyone but me to like you either," the Dark Lord murmured, eyes cooling a little. "Feel free to get dressed by the way. Trust me, I don't mind. Nothing I haven't seen before."

Harry scowled.  
"And there was me thinking this was a matter of professionalism and not just your petty jealousy. Interesting that you're still so possessive. What's the matter, frustrated that nobody wants to sleep with you now that you look so inhuman?"

The other's lips thinned at the comment, and Harry gave a sharp, rather nasty grin in response, turning his back to change without much bother to if the other was there or not.

He was hardly the shy teenager he'd once been, who was going to start blushing and stammering awkwardly. He heard a sharp intake of breath, and the grin broadened. However, when he glanced back over his shoulder, his expression was perfectly composed, eyebrows raised.

"Problem, Tom?"

"Don't call me Tom." The response was immediate, and the other snapped up, eyes suddenly dark, murderous, and alien to any teasing he might once have known. Harry didn't blink, despite how his stomach still lurched at the change.

"Well, if I didn't take to 'my lord' didn't cut it when we were in bed," he sneered mockingly, "it's not going to appeal to me much now. I like Tom. I don't like Voldemort." He suspected they both knew he was talking about far more than names, and the other stood up, discarding the cigarette.

Harry wondered if he'd irritated the bastard into leaving before he broke the truce and shattered. Maybe he loved the vicious way he could prod at all of those buttons the man kept locked up under his armour. Maybe he loved that even if Voldemort could hide them from the rest of the world, Harry had raked his claws across all of them a long time ago already.

"What you seem to fail to realize is that Tom Riddle and Voldemort are in actual fact the same-"

"Yes, I know all about your smug little anagram," Harry said lazily, yawning, despite the sudden raw ache in his chest. "Is there a particular reason in my room or are you just trying to temporarily pretend that you still have friends?"

The man took several steps closer to him, looming over his smaller physique, and Harry resisted the wary urge to take a step back.

"What do you hope to gain from this desperate clutching for allies, Harry?" Voldemort asked, voice too soft to really mean anything good. Oddly, Tom was prone to saying his nicest things in as cold and uncaring a way possible, and his cruelest with that honeyed sweetness in a twisted reverse of what one would reasonably expect. "Say you come here, get France onside with your little rebellion, maybe some other countries too...what good will it do you?"

Harry felt his expression freeze in place. Those bloody eyes remained fixed on him, and his own nearly flinched shut as pale fingers stroked down the side of his cheek, the first skin contact in...what had it been? Three of four years? He felt like every muscle in his body had locked on the spot, as Tom continued, in that same almost gentle tone.

"All you bring is more death onto the world, more suffering, and I know you don't want that. I don't want that either. It's a waste of my time and magical blood. I know the last world war is as fresh in your memory as it is mine, do you really want to drag us into another one?"

"You'd do it anyway," Harry said, voice mercifully not cracking, but raspier than before. "You said it yourself, you're not going to stop until you have everything, and even then I doubt it would be enough for you. You don't know what to do with peace."

"Do you?" the other countered. "We've never known a day of peace in our lives, either of us. But with your help...we could do it. Together. If you stopped this infantile crusade of yours."

Harry snapped himself out it and reared back, his heart hammering.

"**Stop it**!" he hissed.

**"You know it's true, and you know you're no better than me, turning your friends into soldiers and watching them die for your hopeless cause.**"

He could hear his heartbeat in his head.

"Maybe I'll settle for seeing you dead," Harry spat, eyes wild, composure splintering.

"If that were true, you wouldn't have spent the last four years avoiding seeing me so carefully," Voldemort dismissed. "You're still too in love with the pathetic teenager I used to be. Predictable, love. Don't ever think I can't see through your tells."

Sometimes, awfully, he forgot that it was all so horribly mutual. He could smash his fingers across all of the other's triggers all he wanted, but Tom had always been capable of doing the exact same damage back in a perpetual stalemate.

He swallowed, a ringing in his ears. The hand on which had hovered over his cheek tightened on his jaw, pulling it up, and those lips ghosted across his own. Harry's own hand shot up, grabbing Tom's-Voldemort's wrist and squeezing tightly, warningly, mouth dry.

He didn't think he could look away, even if he wanted to.

"Think about it," the other murmured. "These meetings could be a lot more beneficial if we were on the same side. I'm sure you can remember the pros for the immunity deal I offered last time we met will remain open until the end of the summer. If you don't take it, I will actively have you hunted down in your little set of caves, and see everyone you care about killed in front of you no matter how much you plead."

He received a smile that was far too saccharine, and then the other was sweeping out.

"It was lovely to see you again, Harry. Feel free to come by for dinner whilst you're here."

The door slammed shut behind him.

* * *

_A/N: As always, feedback is much loved and appreciated. It's been a rough week. Hope you're still enjoying the story!_


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